


The Terrible Things

by BlueKiwi



Series: A Mirror Darkly [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Female Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran is willing to play along with other people's masquerades - just don't expect him to like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terrible Things

**_the terrible things that happened to you didn’t make you you.  
you always were._ **

 

oOo

The papers that discharge you from Her Majesty’s Armed Forces will be full of lies.

You knows this as well as you know that no one will ever be able to discern the truth about what happened the night that would result in a “full blown investigation into this nonsense - yes sir, no doubt about _that_ at all”. The Americans will call it an honourable discharge - you snort at that because the assholes didn’t even have the balls to give you a dishonourable one.

“No proof,” you hear someone mutter, as you pretend to pretend confusion. “It’s like the fuckers killed themselves.”

You know what people _aren’t_ saying - a person no matter how daft can just easily explain away five dead civilians and a trail thick in conspiracy that no one wants to admit to - and you can already predict what will be in those papers days before your commanding officer gives you the news.

“A mess, this thing is. A despicable mess.”

Oh, you’re sure that your CO thinks so. The man has despised you for years, and what does this say about his leadership abilities? It isn’t a mess for one lowly sniper (you overhear this amongst your peers and you smile grimly - how quickly opinions change when your back is to the wall and your name may have been dragged through the mud), but for the disrepute that hangs over your entire crew. You shrug it off and earn glares and heated whispers behind your back for it. But then you give them all that knowing, smug smile that hadn’t _been_ there before, and they avert their gazes.

One of the newer spotters - too dumb and young to live and less of a shot than the rest of them - confronts you. Was it really your fault? Did you know who was behind the murders? Did you see anything?

Were you lying?

You scoff, dropping your cigarette into the dirt and give the kid a long look.

A goddamned mess.

“Everyone thinks I did. Papers say I didn’t. What’s it to you?” _Leave it alone, mate. Keep your head down and shut your mouth. Too many questions and not enough answers._

It’s one of many confrontations. Every motherfucker in the regiment thinks you did it (hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if you’re on Her Majesty’s shitlist and what a grand tale that would make to tell the boys back home). Dangerous, some say. Unstable, mutter the others. You don’t contradict them. You’re a hell of a shot, and maybe it’s good for your reputation---although a shitload of good it does you now, as you take the plane away from the hellhole known as Afghanistan. Eleven years. Eleven bloody years you've given them. Your blood boils at the mere thought of it.

An elderly man sees your bag, notices your precise leonine movements (“you’ve got the marks of a soldier, lad”), and prepares to talk to you the entire way to Paris, eyes shining bright with nostalgia from his days in some war you don’t care about. You tune him out. You close your eyes. He falls into embarrassed silence.

Now that you’re flying away, silently disgraced but publicly honored, you think maybe you could have gotten out of it. Maybe if you had told them the truth---but oh, what would the truth have been? Wrong place at the wrong time. You can’t tell them what you’ve seen and what you haven’t seen and what you’re sure you’ve seen. Drug cartels and British soldiers and Afghan traders, and your head would be on a pike.

“No proof” rings in your head. No evidence, no easily discernible clues to lead to the guilty party.

It’s a hell of a thing.

 

oOo

Several months later, you are sitting in the pub, hunched over a drink that you wish could have been stronger. You know the barman - you could flag him down to ask for his best whisky, but you already know he’ll refuse you. Bastard thinks he knows your limit, thinks that if he gives you one, you’ll keep asking for more until you’re too drunk to even stumble out of the bar (he’s right).

Some of your old mates want to know if you want to Talk About It - you always hear the capital letters in their words when they approach you, concern etched in their faces but barely hiding the suspicion that there’s more to the story than you’re letting on. You brush off their concern with an agitated wave of your hand every time---you could play the victim if you want, but it’s better to stay with the confused anger. There’s truth there at least - confusion as to what happened that night and anger that it happened to you of all people. Your temper is running short nowadays anyway - not that you were the perfect picture of decorum before but you bundle up your rage now, lashing out verbally and oftentimes physically at anyone who crosses you.

You let it all simmer now in the pub, frowning down at your whisky and listening in boredom to the football game on the telly. You can sense the barman watching you out of the corner of his eye and you know that at least two tables full of sloshed bastards are looking at your back in distaste. Rumours have spread about you and it’d be a fine night for a fight, you think. You can feel the heat of their glares behind you, and your hand unconsciously curls up into a fist.

_C’mon, you fuckers. Give me a reason, and I’ll give you two._

The football is game is interrupted by a news report. The rage dissipates, shouts of dismay rise around the pub, and you have to bite back your disappointment. The barman moves to turn the channel to another station, but you catch sight of the scrolling headline and the accompanying photos and suddenly your interest is captured. The faint cloud of bitter drunkenness vanishes and you haphazardly gesture to the barman.

“Wait. Wait a minute.”

There are furious voices all around you, but you ignore them, intrigued by what you see. Your whisky sits forgotten.

3 CIVILIANS, 1 SOLDIER DEAD IN ARMED BANK ROBBERY IN LAMBETH

Three of the poor bastards you could care less about. But one of them is a man from your former unit, a fellow you used to gamble with on those nights where there was nothing to do except play cards and smoke and hope your CO was in generous mood. His name is--was--Ron something or other. Adair, that’s it. Ron Adair. Happy chap, always talking, always good for a round or four. You lost money to him, he lost money to you.

He had been with you That Night before you had taken your leave and everything had been washed down to hell.

You don’t hear the pretty little anchor talking. Everything is muddled now. When did Ron get back to London? Hell, why was he in London in the first place? You think the anchor is sympathizing with the fact that a soldier whose tours led him to one of the most dangerous countries in the world would end up murdered only four blocks from his family home. You don’t really hear any of that because something like suspicion and dread crawls down your spine.

A logical part of your mind provides that this is just coincidence. Wrong place, wrong time.

Something else more powerful tells you know.

Eventually the barman switches the channel. He approaches you and voices his concern about your suddenly pale demeanor and grim look. What the hell does he want you to say? _Oh, I’m fine--there’s no problem. Just learning that an old comrade of mine had his head blown off while exchanging a couple of banknotes. No, I’m fine. You hear about this every day. Hell of a thing, so sorry for his wife and two whelps. It was just his time. Fuck off._

Your muttered replies - something along the lines of “knew the kid, good person” - earn you that whisky you wanted (the barman may be an ass sometimes, but at least he’s an understanding ass). You are determined to get well and truly drunk and to not _think_ about what all of this means. Coincidence. It’s only a coincidence. The world is horrible and people die. You’ve killed several of them - people are good at dying, sometimes better than they are at living.

You lose count of your drinks.

(You do get your fight later on though so that’s something at least).

 

oOo

You first see the girl near Piccadilly Circus in the middle of the worst winter London’s seen since you first joined the Army.

You can’t stand winter - the ice and the cold and gray mornings drive you insane. You remember how much you hated it when you lived in England. You visited Africa and India years before you joined the army, when you and your dad were actually still on speaking terms and Oxford was just another college that you were going to be bored at. Those places were better (and they still hold good memories even though you’re loathed to admit it), and since then you’ve come to dread the approaching cold season. Afghanistan was much more tolerable. In London, the city turns what could have been a pretty landscape of white ice and blue skies into a dismal wonderland of slush and fumes and wretchedly-filthy cars.

You trudge through the streets back to your flat, hands chafed and stuffed in your pockets, a cigarette dangling from your lips. You would have missed her if she didn’t glance over at you from across the street. She is pretty, you think. Cute even, but not memorable. Doe eyes. Skin the color of coffee with too much cream. She moves like a bird though, all sharp and swift movements - the minimum amount of energy spent to gain the most desired effects. She does however seem too preoccupied with her phone to hail down a cab.

You’re almost tempted to do it for her, but you shrug. You catch her gaze once more - infinitely black and strangely enigmatic - and continue down the street, snow crunching beneath your boots.

For some reason, it feels like her eyes are still on you.

You don’t turn around.

 

oOo

You realize you’re being followed almost immediately and it annoys you on some level that you haven’t felt since you’ve been released from the army. Any animal knows when they’re being hunted, and isn’t that what they call you now? The hairs stand up on the back of your neck, and you unconsciously growl in frustration, loud enough that a passerby gives you a startled look and hastens their pace to get as far away from you as possible.

The feeling continues for several minutes, and a spike of adrenaline goes through your heart. It’s addictive - always has been, always will be - and your breath catches in your throat. Suddenly, you’re back _there_ again, waiting for that high that only comes after several hours of waiting to take that shot. Your life has been hours of stillness and breathless silence and waiting, watching one single person from afar with a closeness as intimate as any lover’s. And it only takes a minute, a second, for that rush to give you a calm clarity, a steady finger, a wild grin of victory.

It’s the same now except you feel as if you’re on the opposite end of the crosshairs. The edge of your lips curl up in a smile. Well, if that how it’s to be...

You don’t walk faster, you don’t look over your shoulder. You decide that you don’t much care for being hunted, no matter what the reason, and you duck into a pub. _Coward_ , a surly voice murmurs sleepily in the back of your mind, a voice you haven’t heard for ages. You quiet it stubbornly, calmly and swiftly reviewing the exits (only two, the front door and the crew entrance towards the back) and the windows (all in the front of the pub and the angles are shit for taking someone out long-range). You almost want to sit at the bar, order a scotch and be done with the chase, but there’s always more to be done.

The eyes are gone momentarily, but they’ll be back.

You ignore the protests as you muscle your way back into the crew area. The attempts to stop you are half-hearted. There’s something in your eyes that scares them, but you don’t think about it. You leave them sputtering in frustration and emerge into the pub’s alley. No eyes but you know that you’re not free yet. You emerge onto the parallel street to the one you’ve just left. Nothing. The hell kind of person is following you, to get thrown off so easily? You want to shrug it off, but you had been eager for a chase. Wit against wit, time to put your old experience to the test. After all, didn’t you have to live with the idea of summary execution over your head during all of your tours? You’re disappointed - for a moment, the rush was back in your life.

You didn’t realize how much you missed it.

You begin to cross the street, muttering darkly under your breath. And then you feel it again - those eyes on you, that feeling of prey being lazily watched by a predator. You smile or at least bare your teeth - it’s frightening and a woman steers around you at the look in your eyes.

Ignoring your instincts is out of the question. You don’t even attempt to look for your stalker. You only look up for an instant and you see _her_ standing about two blocks away beneath an umbrella as black as the irritation and rage in your heart. It’s not raining but thunder rumbles in the distance.

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

It’s the girl from Piccadilly Circus. She smiles at you, but it is not the smile you receive from the women at the bar. It is not full of licentious promise, of kisses and pain and screams of pleasure. It’s a cold smile. Cruel. Knowing. It’s the smile of a predator that knows it has caught its prey.

Later, you think that you should have turned and walked away. She probably would have left you alone if you had rejected that she-devil’s smile, buried your curiosity in the hell it was borne from. But there’s already fire in your eyes - you don’t like being the prey even if the chase, however brief, was glorious. You stalk towards her and people dodge out of your way.

Even as you come closer, she doesn’t even move. Her smile stays put, becoming a shade more proper and bland.

“What the hell do you want?” you growl.

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a business card. “My employer sent me out to find you, sir. There is a business proposition that you may be interested in.” You can’t pinpoint her accent and, standing this close to her, you get the feeling that she’s much older than she looks (hell, she barely looks legal - what kind of employer is she talking about?). For some reason, you are thrown off and that adds fuel to the flames burning deep in your chest. You scoff and don’t take the card.

“I’m not interested.”

Her smile is still polite and blank and you get the feeling that in the black gaze she is staring into something you’ve hidden deep within yourself and forgotten. But you don’t avert your gaze - you hold hers, blue fire against black, and eventually she raises an eyebrow ever minutely and her own smile becomes smug enough that you want to choke it out of her face. “I think you might be interesting though. The number is on here. We’ll talk soon.” She places the card into your hand - her fingers are colder than death and carry electricity that surprises you - and turns to walk away. You bite your tongue to keep from calling her all sorts of disparaging names.

Instead, you surprise yourself. “Should I be expecting a name from you?”

She doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. She only calls, “They call me Maya.”

 _Well, isn’t that splendid_ , you think sourly, wondering why you should care about this vague “they” and what her name is anyway. The card is cold in your hand. You look at it.

It has a name and a number, black on white, nothing more.

**J. M O R I A R T Y**

Something settles into you then when you read the unfamiliar name. You don’t know why and you don’t care to find out, but it’s as if a lasso has been settled over your soul. You don’t know the employer or the sort of job he wants from you or why he’d send his devilishly-bland secretary out to scout you, but something about it all screams of deceit and a labyrinth of secrets that you will never unravel as long as you live. You look up again, but the girl known as Maya is gone, vanished into the crowd.

You figure it out much later.

Maya.

 _Maya_.

Hindu. Sanskrit. _Illusions._

You should have fucking known better.

 

oOo

When you come back from the drugstore, she is sitting in your flat and your gun is out and pointed at her skull before you can even process that it’s the same girl from two months ago.

She doesn’t even blink, only gives him that deceptively insipid smile and folds her hands on her lap like a good little schoolgirl looking to give her adored teacher the right answer. The smile doesn’t hide the glint of darkness in her eyes though and you narrow your own. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’d put that down if I were you, sir.” She is picture perfect, clean lines and smoothed back hair and polished makeup. You realize immediately that she is deliberately projecting an image, but you don’t know _why_ when you’re too furious with her for waltzing into your flat like she _owns_ it. You think that she is completely out of place in a room that reeks of beer and cigarettes (your landlady is going to kill you again when she finally finds out), and the thought of her sidestepping the garbage in your place in those classy Louboutins almost causes a snarling grin to come onto your face. “I’m only here to talk. I didn’t hear back from you.”

 _“_ How’d you know where I live?” You don’t want small talk laced with apologies and excuses (and you note belatedly that her accent is different than the one she used when you first met). You want explanations for things now or you don’t know if you’ll be able to keep your hands from wringing her delicate little neck. “You’ve been following me?”

“I didn’t need to. I’ve others to do that for me.”

You don’t like non-answers and something about the casual way she says that puts you on edge. You don’t move away from the door and you don’t lower your gun. “Then you’ve probably come to realize that I’ve nothing that would interest you or your employer by way of anything important. The lack of a phone call should have been your clue.”

Something flickers in her expression but it’s gone too soon for you to pinpoint what it was. “Nothing important, sir?” Her smile becomes fixed, but her eyes narrow. “My employer knows you very well: Sebastian Moran, age 31, born in Chelsea, only child of former ambassador Sir Augustus Moran and the deceased Olivia Stewart. Formerly of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, renowned and decorated sniper, mysteriously released from your seventh tour of duty in Afghanistan one year ago. Rumour has it that you’re one of the best shots in the world now living, a rumour that cannot be confirmed because despite your arrogance, you never wanted your marks on record. Your relationship with your father is fractured after a bit of teenage rebellion from you - he wanted you to go into politics, you disagreed. You haven’t spoken to him in three years, six months, and fourteen days.”

“How-”

“You currently work with a construction company because you’re very good with your hands - you’ve always been quite clever at putting things together but even better at taking them apart. Your teachers used to think that you’d go on to be an architect of sorts. When your father was an ambassador, you traveled to Tanzania, Iran, Saudi Arabia, India, and Brazil. The only thing you and your father ever agreed upon during those trips was your love of the wildlife - you two used to go hunting together when you were younger. He’s the one who taught you how to use a rifle. He’s the one who originally tried to tame you.”

You don’t know why, but slowly you begin to smile.

“You don’t drive a car and you say that it’s because your mother was killed in a car accident. However, that’s a lie - you own a motorcycle because it gives you a certain rush of adrenaline that wouldn’t be possible with a car. You’d rather chase death on two wheels than on four. You’re an expert gambler, but a sore loser. You’re always tardy, but people like your familiarity and forgive you for it. You’re deceptively intelligent - one must be to achieve your rank in the army - but you hide it behind the banal image of hired muscle.” She purses her lips and looks at you thoughtfully. “You’re a tiger without a master, a bullet without someone to pull the trigger. You’re bored with your life and my employer has the solution. You only have to say yes.”

You bark out a laugh and lower your gun. “That fucking simple, huh?”

“You’re also allergic to shellfish, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“I also get really pissed when uppity little tarts walk into my place without permission - did your employer mention that too?”

She stands then, smiling. You can’t help but notice how the smile is colder than glacial ice and turns her eyes into shards of glass. “It might have been considered. As I said, my employer knows you well and is more than willing to pay you quite handsomely should you take up that offer I left you with two months ago.”

“Sweetheart, you never said what the job was.” You gesture lazily with your gun, but you don’t put it back where it had been comfortably tucked in your waistband. “And while your employer’s knowledge is impressive, I don’t work for mystery men who hide in shadows. Say what you have to and get out.”

Something flashes in her eyes, angry and so incredibly volatile that, for a moment, you’re taken aback. But instead of letting it show, you only raise an eyebrow at her, daring her to show something more than that professional politeness that was the bane of all assistants in the world. You watch her clench her jaw around something left to be unspoken and the mask melts into place once again.

“You know of the armed robbery in Lambeth six months ago?”

It’s your turn to grit your teeth. You try not to let emotion pass over your face and you manage to spit you, “Yes. Common knowledge, that.”

“What of the hostage situation in Cornwall?”

You shrug.

“The counterfeit scandal with the Duchess several weeks ago?”

You nod rather than admit that you’re perplexed, especially as Maya lists off a dozen more high-profile crimes that have occurred everywhere from London to Hong Kong to Sydney. Scotland Yard had been up in arms about the whole thing, since nearly all of the crimes pinpointed their way back to England somehow. You’ve only been dimly aware of it all, passing photos and voices on the telly that scream of days no longer as peaceful as they once were. You usually roll your eyes when you see those and flip the channel - people are naive, and the worst thing is that they buy into their own drivel.

She stops and waits expectantly for an answer. You sigh and play along. “You’re telling me that...what? Your employer is part of the MI6 and wants me to help catch crooks?”

There goes the plastic smile again.

“No, Sebastian. My employer - Moriarty - is the one behind all of it. And it’s come to our attention that you are quite good at your job.”

You stare at her, feeling your fingers curl around the handle of the gun. Quite good at my job. Not construction worker. Not a gambler. A sniper.

A killer.

But you don’t raise your gun and later on, you can’t figure out why (or you’re too ashamed to admit to yourself that you know exactly why you didn’t). The girl Maya doesn’t move for a long, breathless moment, doesn’t seem at all concern by your lack of reaction. She only pulls out another business card from her pocket and places it on the coffee table, white against scratched and battered oak.

“The offer is, if you’ll excuse the pun, still on the table, sir.”

 

oOo

You don’t say yes, but you don’t say no either.

The people at work have Voiced Their Concerns about you, wondering why you’ve been moody and distant lately. You don’t tell them about the white business card that still sits on the coffee table in your flat, you don’t tell them about the mysterious Maya who has once again vanished without a trace. You’ve searched for this enigmatic Moriarty on the internet, have placed the question to several people who work with the crime units, and you’ve come back empty-handed.

You’re confused, and it has made you surly. You’ve been brusque and downright rude with your coworkers, and they whisper their theories behind your back that you still _hear_ and it only makes you angrier. And you're afraid that you know why you're angry and you _should_ just tear up that business card. But...

But.

About one or three weeks later, you call your father.

“Augustus Moran.”

“It’s me.”

A long pause. “Sebastian?”

You pretend not hear the pleased surprise in your father’s voice. A phone works both ways, you remind yourself. “When I was eleven and you and me and Mum went to India, do you remember the tiger we saw?”

“Sebastian, what in the world are you blathering on about? I haven’t heard from you-”

“Do you remember or not?”

There’s another pause, longer than the first. You wonder if he’s going to answer, but you finally hear him say, “The white Bengal, yes. I remember. What does this have to do with anything? When did you get back to London?”

 _Everything. Over a year ago._ You don’t answer his questions. “I asked you why that tiger was different from others we had seen. Mum wanted to give me the actual answer, but you didn’t let her.”

“Sebastian, what-”

“Do you remember what you said, Dad?” Your grip on the phone tightens. “Do you remember what you told me?”

You can hear your father breathing on the other line, can feel the tension that threatens to choke the both of you. You know there’s something he wants to say - something he _must_ say - but you won’t let him have the chance. You hear his sigh of defeat, can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he always did when he was uncomfortable with something. “I told you---I told you that even though the tiger looked different, it still had the heart of the beast. That you musn’t be deceived by its outer appearance.”

“And that no matter how extraordinary it seemed, it would as soon kill you as look at you.”

“Sebastian-”

You hang up. For several minutes, you stare at the cell in your hand, waiting for the inevitable call back. It comes almost immediately. The number is not one of your contacts. You stare at it for several more moments before flinging the phone into the Thames. Some confused tourists give you disapproving looks, but there’s no guilt or anger on your face despite the turmoil of emotion raging in the pit of your stomach. You watch the distant splash - it has narrowly missed a boat passing along the brown waters - and you turn your back and walk away.

And you begin to laugh.

 

oOo

“When am I going to meet your employer?”

You don’t move from where you’ve perched your M82, peering through the crosshairs at some gent who has been pacing in front of Earl’s Court tube station for the past twenty minutes. Even from afar, you can see that the fellow looks nervous, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes or so. You snort derisively - the man is guilty and obvious enough about it that you don’t want to waste such a clean shot on someone who deserves to get dropped unceremoniously from the Eye.

Sometimes there is no honour amongst thieves.

He can almost hear Maya smile through the Bluetooth - secure line, she’s already checked through and through.

“You’ve never asked that before.”

“After seven months, I think it’s high time I did.”

You don’t know where she’s at - wherever it is, she probably has a clear view of the impending kill - but you smirk when you hear her laugh. “Moriarty wants you to be my protector. Isn’t that enough?”

You snort. “You don’t even do anything except shuffle papers and play Tetris on your phone.”

You imagine her furrowing her brow in irritation. Over seven months, anyone would think that Moriarty’s two lapdogs - one his personal assistant, the other his personal sniper - would’ve formed some sort of romantic fling, especially considering their close proximity to each other. You’re amused by the mere notion - fucking Maya would have been like fucking a goddamned iceberg. The girl was a bitch, heartless and always hiding behind a mask of manners and sheer politeness.

“I do more than that.”

“You could’ve fooled me, love.” You spot another man quickly approaching your target, sunglasses obscuring his face. Well, at least this bastard somewhat knew what he was doing. You shift your shoulders, waiting for the cue that Moriarty had told both you and Maya about. The rush of adrenaline that always precedes a kill floods your veins, turning your blood into fire. You don’t even realize you’re smiling.

“The mark?”

“Meeting Mr. Sunshine now. Looks like you were right.”

“I thought I was useless.”

“Mr. Moriarty must find some uses for you,” you tease, watching as your mark passes Sunglasses a plain white envelope. You hear Maya hum thoughtfully.

“You know, you’ve always just assumed that Moriarty is male.”

The trigger is pulled. The world freezes for a moment and then the mark’s head explodes in a shower of brain and bone and Sunglasses staggers back as the bullet pierces his shoulders. A body falls to the ground and the screams start. Panic flares in the crowd but you’re already sitting up, pulling the rifle back into the window, a ghost to the world. You frown over Maya’s words, stretching your stiff muscles. You can hear the screams from the station in the background.

“Suppose now you’re going to tell me I’ve been working for a woman this entire time.”

Maya is silent as you pack up the rifle and begin to descend the stairs down into the chaotic streets.

Then, “Consider these past seven months your audition.”

Oh.

_Oh._

You stop just as you emerge into the light of the afternoon, running passersby jostling into you as they try to escape the kill. _Oh, goddammit it all_.

“Fuck you.”

Moriarty lets out a peal of laughter.

 

oOo

You think Moriarty is ice, but eventually you have to admit to yourself that’s she more than that.

She’s not the crystalline kind of ice that hangs from buildings, accidental but obvious daggers waiting to unleash pain and shatter on pavement. No, you realize much later and when you’re far too entangled in her schemes to break free, that she is black ice. Invisible. Unavoidable.

The most dangerous.

She explains the con to you two years after you’ve been calling her 'Boss' (and you still think that she looks like a little girl, too damn innocent to be the master criminal behind the most elusive crime ring in the world). She is sitting behind an empty desk, holding her teacup and saucer, her lips pursed in thought. You know what expression - it’s been three years since you’ve gotten used to it (she once tells you that three years is the longest she’s ever had a pet, and you almost bristle but something stays your tongue as it always does).

“It’s simple, really,” she murmurs, eyes bright with that mad intelligence that she always hides behind the mask of being her own goddamned secretary.

 _These are not games_ , you want to shout at her. _We cannot be played like pawns._ But instead, you only sprawl in the seat across from the desk and began to clean the pistol that has already more than earned its keep.

“Do tell. I’m _dying_ of anticipation already.”

Her mouth tilts up in that innocent little smile that would not have been out of place on some vapid private schoolgirl. Even the way her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders as she sips her tea screams of Persephone reborn, and not vengeful Nemesis.

 _Heaven help me_ , you think with an annoyed sigh. You’ve pulled a gun on her half a dozen times now, and she always gives you that bird-like tilt of the head, as if completely confused why you’re angry or frustrated or annoyed with her. You do it now, immediately after she tells you her plan - and it’s not like you haven’t seen it coming. After all, you’ve both been “working” for an invisible employer for years now. Why not put a face to the name?

You think it’s suicidal and tell her in no unclear terms how fucking ridiculous the plan is. She listens to you, spinning her chair as you spit out your argument. Even when you’re done and want to shoot her brains out, she smiles beatifically as if nothing has happened, the same cruel madness kissing the edge of her smile. She has havoc in her hand, and she controls it like a feral dog.

She controls it like she controls you.

You roll your eyes finally and leave the room. She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t have to.

She knows you’ll be back.

 

oOo

This is a game you hate playing.

You don’t pretend to love her, even when she dons that mask - these are the little nuances she's very good at, the sculpted trivialities that let her pass as harmless and unimportant (oh, wouldn’t Scotland Yard have a _laugh_ if they found that out). The others, the irrelevant people - they never look in her eyes for very long, not like you do. Perhaps they sense the darkness that will drown them if they meet her gaze for more than a few timid seconds. They don't see those careful, apathetic calculations, those cruel manipulations that will tear apart the staunchest of barriers.

When she kisses you (and it's always _her_ that leans forward at the last minute because you daren't cross through that invisible cage she has wrapped you in), you can taste molten heat and false passion as you swallow those scripted gasps and graze your fingers down her side in that choreographed dance of desire.

She has explained this all to you and you can’t stand that it actually works. You’ve learned to play the role of Moriarty brilliantly, and people accept it so readily when they had not before. There is satisfaction and disgust in the role you have to play - you are used to melting into the shadows, being a ghost that was not and will not be. But Moriarty - the real one with the doe eyes and the princess curls and the fucking _ovaries_ \- knows to play on people’s assumptions. They _want_ the world’s most cunning criminal to be male. They _want_ him to be physically intimidating and charming, a golden boy with a mind as wicked as a demon's.

And so she gives them you, throws you to the sharks and hopes you don’t drown.

You hate the suits (“ah, but you look so _handsome_ , Moran,” she says without a smile or amusement, distracted by her never-ending chase with the MI6 and Scotland Yard) and the double meanings behind the double meanings. There are sometimes when she wants you to rein in the act, to plant doubt in someone's mind to see their true loyalties. And even when someone almost matches her skills as a chessmaster, Moriarty, you find, is just too damn ruthless and unpredictable for anyone to follow.

She knows when a camera is on them, knows then a room has been bugged, and she plays her role with an intensity that is almost frightening and she expects you to do the same. Sometimes, as your teeth sink into the warm flesh as the crook of her neck and you can feel her pulse beneath your tongue, you can almost believe it’s real. But then she tilts your head back, her fingers knotted in your hair and gives you that damn condescending smile that no one else sees and you want to curse at her, push her away from you, leave her and forget about this life. You could convince yourself that you’re better than this - you’re better than her trigger, her fuck toy, her loyal lap dog that puts a bullet in the brain of anyone who stands in her way.

But you’re already addicted. She made sure of that the moment she first cornered you and gave you that rush of something dangerous, something real, something _more_.

And you realize, every time and always belatedly, that you are very much damned.


End file.
